


Are You Still There?

by NeonGreyscale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Letters, Love, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonGreyscale/pseuds/NeonGreyscale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his childhood, there were few people Sherlock Holmes could call a friend, and the only one he wanted to was John- if only he could see him in person again.</p><p>Very very loosely inspired by the film Beaches, but it's taking its own direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ninety-nine red balloons go by

**Author's Note:**

> Like the description said, it's inspired by the movie Beaches. Won't be anything near an exact rewrite, but some parts remain similar, so if you've watched it you may have spoilers... or you may not. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> My first fic uploaded here, so idk if you can change the ratings... Will probably be mature in later chapters but I'm not sure yet.
> 
> Feedback appreciated!
> 
> Edit: Because I'm obsessed with making a collection of songs for everything, every chapter will be named after a song.  
> Song for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRFyKRlPfEg

"Thanks, Sherlock," said a prematurely grey detective inspector. "We'll take it to forensics."  
The other man frowned slightly as he walked away, the DI following him to the sidewalk. "It was obvious. Really, Lestrade, do you even look at the evidence before calling me?"

It was normal enough for Sherlock to say, but he sounded tired and flat, and his dark mop of curly hair was slightly mussed.  
"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock ignored him as he hailed a cab.  
"Sherlock, if I have to-"  
Greg was cut off by the door of the cab slamming shut in his face.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, further messing it up. "221 Baker Street."  
Before he started to drive, the cabbie glanced at him through the car mirror, then turned his head to look at him.  
"Hey, aren't you-"  
"No."

Sherlock stared out the window, pressing his aching head against the cool glass as rain began to fall.

~~~

"It's so obvious!" Said a boy of ten, his collected image quickly turned to petulance. He was following a young police constable, the only one who would listen to him. Geoff, or Greg, or something unimportant. The man sighed, part pity, part exasperation.  
"Sherlock, you're a smart kid. You know that no inspector in his right mind would listen to the advice of a child, no matter how much of a genius you may be. We're not desperate just yet."  
Sherlock pressed his lips together and lifted his chin contemptuously before leaving the police station, standing outside for a while, shielded from the storm by the eave.

Soon, another boy walked towards the door, completely drenched in rain. His clothes were heavy with wetness, but he was expensively dressed for a child of Sherlock's age, if a little older. He was obviously lost. He wasn't frightened, though, only visibly uncomfortable.

"It's Claridge's," Sherlock said.  
The blonde boy stopped short of opening the door, eyebrows raised slightly in recognition, but then furrowed in confusion. "What?"  
Sherlock sighed. "Your hotel, it's called Claridge's. Am I correct?"  
"Y..yes, I think so." The voice had no sort of posh accent. "How did you figure that out?"  
Sherlock opened his mouth to go into one of his proud explanations, but closed it. Might not end well. "I observed, and made a deduction," he said simply.  
The stranger still looked confused, but he smiled gratefully. "Impressive, anyway! Thank you..." He gave a glance at the rain pouring down on the concrete. "What's your name?"  
"Sherlock Holmes," he said.  
The other boy offered his hand to shake. "John. John Watson."  
Sherlock reluctantly shook the hand stuck out at him.  
"Thanks again for your help," John said. "Do you want to go get lunch? It's on me."  
Sherlock considered refusing, but with nothing left to to, the alternative would be to stay at home while Mycroft was sweating like a pig on his exercise bike, likely with a cake placed somewhere out of reach for motivation.  
"Sure."

They'd talked on the way there, about how John had gotten lost, wanting to get away from his father. The man was always either dreadfully overbearing or too involved in his work to mind his son.  
The two arrived at Speedy's; John had asked Sherlock where he wanted to go, and he usually only went there. It was conveniently close to where he lived, and he didn't care much about variety, given he only ate when he had to.  
When they'd gotten to the restaurant, John asked Sherlock about his family. The boy didn't speak much about his parents, but his sarcastic remarks about Mycroft made John laugh, to Sherlock's pleasure- though he wouldn't let that show.

"That thing you did at the police station, when you figured out which hotel was mine- can you do that with other things?"  
Sherlock nodded, then looked around the restaurant briefly.  
"There," he said, looking at a couple near the back. "She's trying to flirt, terribly. Her laughter is tense, and so is the hand her ring should be on. Her other hand is near her mouth, a protective motion. Adultery. Fairly simple."  
"Wow," John said, looking at Sherlock in wonder. "You've got to be a detective when you grow up!"  
"I plan to be a consulting detective," Sherlock replied, silently glad that John didn't think he was a freak.  
"What's that?"  
"Well, it's not an actual position, but I'm a good deal smarter than the rest of that lot, and they'll come to me for assistance when they can't pull their heads out of their arses to use them for once."  
John chuckled at that comment. "I think you could do it."  
"I know I can. ... Thank you," he added quietly. John grinned.

When they left, John asked if they could keep in touch. "Can I write you?"  
"Why would you want to write _me?_ "  
"Are you kidding? You're one of the most amazing people I've ever met!"  
The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched slightly up, only enough for someone attentive like Sherlock to notice. Or someone like John Watson.  
"Absolutely."


	2. Letters from an old friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: brief description of heroin usage in this chapter.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!  
> My song for this chapter didn't have lyrics, but it's in homage to the movie that inspired it so...
> 
> Song for this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FhtBBRN2_g

14th April 1987 (one year later)  
John tore open the seal of the envelope sent from Baker Street. The boy hadn't heard from Sherlock for about three weeks, and he quickened his pace to a run to get to his room as fast as he could.  
"John, don't run inside," his father called from his study. John obediently slowed his pace, then sped up again as he neared his bedroom door. He pulled out the letter as soon as he closed the door behind him.

 _Dear John,_  
 _The Yard finally listened to me as I said they would. They were about to throw in the towel with the murder of Carl powers, label it as an accidental drowning. They didn't even question his lack of shoes. Carl was murdered by botulinum poisoning via his eczema medication. I believe the Scotland Yard will be considering my advice more often in the future, although they're not all pleased about it._  
 _How have you been?_  
 _Sincerely,_  
 _Sherlock Holmes_

John sat at his desk to were a reply. For a while, he mulled over what all to say to his friend, then finally began.

_Dear Sherlock,_  
 _Things have been going well for me! I started horse riding a little over a month ago. It wasn't my idea, and I'm terrible at it, but it's still fun. My dad says I'd make a great jockey. I know it's just a joke about my height, though. Besides, my father spends a lot of time hinting that he wants me to be a doctor. I think I'd like to be a journalist, or at least something that lets me get out and really see something great. Maybe I could move to Baker Street and tag along while you solve cases. Or maybe the two of us could be pirates, that would be an adventure. Ha, imagine that!_  
 _Did I mention that I've missed you?_  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John_

~~~

7th August 1991  
Sherlock looked up from the microscope and pulled out a piece of paper on which to write his results on the samples he'd been studying. Pen hovering over the page, his eyes met his calendar, and he paused for a few moments before writing a letter instead.

 _Dear John,_  
 _Happy birthday. I am aware that this is the first year I've ever told you that, but I haven't deleted the date._  
 _I started taking ballet lessons two days ago. Mummy thought I needed something of a distraction after Redbeard ran away. Dancing has actually been quite nice, but of course, I won't tell that to Mycroft; I've seen enough of his smug smile to last me the rest of my days. If I know my brother, he's probably already found Redbeard through his "minor position" in the British government and is holding him from me until he's pleased with my level of contentment without him. Perhaps, then, I should humour him the next time he asks about my lessons._  
 _Your friend,_  
 _Sherlock Holmes_

Before even beginning to read the letter, John's eyes trailed down to Sherlock's signature. Your friend. Sherlock had always signed off his letters with "sincerely" preceding his name. It seemed like Sherlock was more deliberate when writing "friend" than he was with the rest of his hurried words. Or maybe that was just John's imagination, but either way, he smiled warmly at it.  
"John! Quit daydreaming, the bell rang."  
The blonde teenager looked up to see Mike and the rest of his mates standing in the doorway and looking out onto the courtyard where John was grinning like an idiot.  
"Alright, alright," he replied as he caught up to his friends and made his way to class, occasionally glancing down at the paper in his hand in attempts to read it along the way.

_Dear Sherlock,_  
 _It's been a bit difficult these past few days, but I'm glad to hear from you. Harry recently told our father that she's gay, and he didn't take it very well. I think she's going to go stay at her friend's house- well, I guess now that I think of it, she's probably not just her friend after all. I don't think Dad made her leave, but neither of them really want to see each other right now. She keeps apologizing to me, for coming out so soon before my birthday. I don't mind too much, though. Birthday dinners were always awkward anyways._  
 _In other news, I got a car of my own for a gift! It's good not to have to get my dad to-_  
  


"Harriet Watson!" His father's booming voice from down the hall interrupted his writing. John couldn't make out much of the words after that, as he'd lowered his tone, but he could still hear the malice in it. John tried to continue his letter.

_It's good not to-_

"Why can't I leave, then? You don't want me here anyway!" Harriet's shrill yell countered something that their dad said.

_Not to have to-_

A string of shouting followed that, and John couldn't get back to his letter until it was well into the night, and he could see his older sister's car pull out of the driveway, and his muscles finally relaxed.

_It's good not to have to get my dad to drive me everywhere._  
 _Also, I wouldn't worry about whatever Mycroft may or may not be up to, he's probably just trying to be a good brother. He might have a strange way of showing it, but I think he at least tries. Tell me if you find Redbeard!_  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John._

~~~

4th December 1999  
 _Dear John,_  
 _Since my last letter, I have solved the Annalise Clarke case. That's the one I mentioned with the woman who allegedly committed suicide, but with an unusual amount of detail. As it turned out, it really was a suicide; she had tried to frame her ex-partner for her murder. She miserably failed at doing so, but I suppose it's the thought that counts._  
 _I've met a few new acquaintances at university. They're spoilt brats, but they can hold up a conversation without sounding like an idiot, save for the dreadful Sebastian Wilkes. You would hate him._  
 _Your friend,_  
 _Sherlock Holmes._

John was reading the letter, which was resting atop a pile of books he was slowly carrying around, when he bumped into another student and almost dropped all of his things. "Er, sorry," he said hurriedly as he shifted his books under his arm. He paid attention to where he was going now as he made his way back to his dorm.

_Dear Sherlock,_  
 _Last night I was on the internet searching for more ways to study, as not all minds are as brilliant as yours, and I found something about building a memory palace. I thought all those times that you mentioned a 'mind palace', you were just making something daft up! Now that I know what a memory palace is, I've been trying to create one, but it's not very easy. My fictitious library currently only occupies a small file on penicillin and the effects of smoking tobacco on the body. Maybe it's not for me._  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John._

John's letter remained unread in a stack of other various papers on top of Sherlock's dresser.  
"Want some?"  
"Please..." Sherlock murmured quietly in the dim light of his bedroom. His arm clenched before the prick of the needle. He soon felt pleasantly distant with the heroin swimming in his veins and Victor's mouth on his neck.

~~~

21st February 2003  
John clicked his pen repeatedly, licking his lips as he pondered whether or not he should write to Sherlock. Their letters had become less frequent, and the last time Sherlock had replied to him was two months ago. A few moments later, he straightened himself in his chair and began.

_Dear Sherlock,_  
 _I've graduated medical school, and I've been thinking about becoming an army doctor for a while now. Please reply._  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John._

~~~

3rd March 2003  
 _Dear Sherlock,_  
 _I haven't heard back from you for months. Have you been getting my letters? Are you alright?_  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John._

~~~

25th May 2003  
 _Dear Sherlock,_  
 _I decided to follow through with my plan to join the army. If you're getting these letters, I wish you would let me know. Are you still there, or am i just sending these to an empty house?_  
 _Your friend,_  
 _John._


End file.
